Everything Seems Clear
by Fiyeraaron
Summary: Combeferre urged him to get the glasses in the first place, so he doesn't know whether to hate him or thank him.


It was Combeferre who urged him to go and get his eyes tested a couple of weeks ago. He couldn't see a sign from across the street or something, so Combeferre booked an eye test for him.

Turns out reading until the early hours of the morning with only a small light can damage your eyes. Who knew?

He's short sighted or something, which means he has to have glasses. He's not all too bothered about that part. The part that he is bothered about, though, is the fact that there are so many to choose from.

Now, normally he would pick up the first one he saw, but Combeferre did that once and Courfeyrac laughed at him every time he entered the room for three months because of a pair that 'made him look like an eighty seven year old history teacher in a private school'.

So, he tries a black pair that look suitable. He has a little trouble pulling them from the holder, but he manages to put them onto his face with little trouble. Looking in the circular mirror, he checks how they look and immediately grimaces, pulls them off his face, and almost shoves them back in the holes.

Looking immediately to the left, he picks up the next pair. Green, with silver metallic rims. He goes to put them on, but then realises that green has never suited him, and never will. He places them back on the shelf with a huff.

He stays there for another five minutes, just picking up random pairs and trying them on. Each time, however, he ends up pushing them back into the holders and looking around determinedly for another pair.

His parents brought him up with tailors, regular trips to the hair salon, and designer labels, and, of all the uptight, bourgeois habits they gave him, this seems to be the only one that has stuck with him. He has a suit on right now, in fact. He probably looks very out of place.

Nevertheless, he knows he has to take pride in his appearance. Especially as a lawyer, he needs to look respectable.

He picks up a pair of square glasses, black in colour with red tips. He lifts them up to his face.

"Please, for the love of god, _no_."

He turns to his right. A woman, probably just younger than him, is stood there. She seems to be looking through glasses exactly, only on the opposite side of the aisle, browsing the women's section. She's wearing a black dress which is tight at the top and loose at the skirt, a blue cardigan flung over the top.

He raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Do not even _try_ those."

He turns to her fully, still clutching the pair in his left hand. "Who are you to tell me what not to wear?"

She puts her hands on her hips as she turns to face him as well. "I'm Éponine, and those glasses are dreadful."

He shakes his head in disbelief. "What are you, the glasses expert?"

She ignores the question, turning to look back at the women's glasses, gently skimming her fingers over a few pairs. "The silver ones you tried on earlier are better."

He stays looking at her, shaking his head once more. "Have you been watching me try on glasses?"

She cocks her head over her shoulder, her eyes teasing. Her hair falls over her shoulder and onto her back, tumbling into the mess of waves ebbing down to her waist. "You've been stood in that exact place for ten minutes trying on glasses, and every time you have frowned and put them back. It was hard to _not_ watch you."

He looks back down to the glasses in his hand. "And- wait, what is so bad about _these_ glasses?"

"You look rich, smart. You can't be wearing those glasses around your business friends, they'll laugh at you."

He frowns, but smiles anyway. She not looking at him anymore, she's studying a pair of purple metallic glasses. "They already do." She grins, but doesn't look at him or say anything. He feels like he needs to carry the conversation on, so he continues. "You still haven't told me what makes these glasses a bad choice."

She doesn't move her head, but her eyes lock onto his. "They won't flatter your face shape. And, seriously. Blue eyes, red and black glasses? Catastrophe." She looks back at her glasses.

He laughs then, and she looks up surprised, but a smile teases at her lips anyway. She takes a few steps down the aisle, letting her eyes scan the glasses. Placing the glasses back in their hold, her turns to her. "And can you see any frames that would, as you so put it, flatter my face shape?" He follows her down the aisle until he's stood next to her, his eyes also looking at the glasses she is.

She gives him a side glance. "Well, to start, these are the women's glasses."

He looks down, his face heating up embarrassedly. He chuckles slightly. "Oh, right."

She points down the aisle. "Go down there, that's where all the designer ones are." She skims her eyes up and down him. "More suited to your tastes and budget, I think."

He looks past her, down the aisle. He nods at her, then takes a step away from her. She goes back to looking at the women's glasses.

Stopping a few feet away from her, he turns to her again. "Would you come and give me your expertise, please?"

She looks up at him, smiles, then simply walks down the aisle next to him.

* * *

><p>Three days later, he's sat in the waiting room. His glasses are ready to be picked up, they said, yet he's been sat here for fifteen minutes.<p>

It's rainy outside, but thanks to the time he's spent sitting alone, his curls are dry. Well, he's not alone. He's sat next to a plant, and across the room there is a mother and a toddler holding a bear. The bear is soaking wet from the rain, and the mother looks overly tired.

The door opens and he hears a gust of wind. A woman rushes in, a bright red coat over blue jeans and knee high boots. Closing the door quickly behind her, she turns her head to look around the room.

It's her. The girl from the other day. She recognises him and sighs, reaching up to squeeze her hair. Droplets fall from it, and she walks towards him, taking a seat next to him.

"It's raining outside."

He nods, giving her a lopsided smile. "I can see that."

She's taking her coat off, peeling it off of her arms and resting it on the chair next to her. "Didn't think I'd see you here."

He frowns at her, still smiling. "Why would you not see me here?"

She cocks her head. "You've got a point there, sir."

"Enjolras."

She turns and looks at him, narrowing her eyes. "I'm sorry, what?"

"My name- it's Enjolras."

She scans her eyes over the rest of the room until they land on the mother and toddler. She looks back at him. "Enjol-what?" She looks about ready to burst into laughter.

He rolls his eyes. "'Enjolras'."

"What kind of name is Arn-jol-rass? It sounds like a kind of animal. Like a walrus type creature."

"It's pronounced Enjolras."

"No, but, seriously, who names their kid _Enjolras_? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of." She's laughing now, and he can't seem to stop her.

"They didn't name me that, you idiot, Enjolras is my surname."

She gives him a sideways glance. "Hold on, hold on. You're trying to tell me that your surname is Enjolras?" He nods. "Yet you use it as your first name, even though it is truly awful."

"Well, yes?" He shrugs.

"But why?" She's laughing again.

"It's just something my friends and I do?"

"It does sound like a very posh name." She nods as she speaks, her eyes looking off into space. She turns to him again. "Wait, so what's your real name?"

He shakes his head, turns his body away from her and crosses his arms. "No, no way."

From the other side of the room, he hears a man say 'Caitlin', and he guesses that the woman with the toddler has been taken into the other room.

"Ah, come on, Enj', it can't be as bad as Enjolras." She punches his shoulder.

He turns to her, his eyes narrowing. "Did-did you just call me Enj'?"

"Hey, I'm just trying to cut off some of the ugliness!"

"I've never heard that one before."

"Look, just tell me your first name and I'll leave you alone."

He raises an eyebrow. "What if I don't want you to leave me alone?"

She laughs in his face then. "In that case, you're weird. Altogether, we've been in each other's presence for less than an hour."

He shakes his head. "In that case," he mocks her voice, "why should I tell you my first name?"

"Fine, if you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."

He does a double take. "I already know your first name! That's an unfair deal, and I will not stand for it."

"I'll tell you my last name?"

"Is it worse than Enjolras?"

"Ha, of course not."

"Then no."

She doesn't reply for a couple of seconds. "Then you're a terrible friend." She crosses her arms and turns from him.

The door opens and a man steps through it. "Gabriel Enjolras? Sorry about the wait."

He closes his eyes and waits for it.

The boisterous laughter from beside him carries on until he's in the other room and the door is shut.

* * *

><p>He sits in the waiting room fifteen minutes after he has paid for his glasses. He has to admit, they do look quite good.<p>

The door opens. She walks into the room with a bag in her hand and sees him there, lifting her eyebrows. "Were you... Waiting for me?" Her voice is laced with humour.

He stands up. "No, of course not. I was waiting for the rain to subside."

"Who cares if it has? It's just rain."

"It may be to you, Éponine, but my hair is very high maintenance." He smirks at her, proud that he didn't even need the help of a third party to find out her given name.

"Seriously, every single thing you say now just points to you being an overly privileged man who owns a yacht and plays golf on Saturdays."

"I'm a lawyer."

"My statement still stands."

"What is your second name?"

She raises an eyebrow and smirks at him. "Oh, like I'd tell you that easy, Gabriel."

He frowns.


End file.
